“We have no unquantifiable right to freedom,” warns 1963 Nobel laureate John Eccles, “We are only entitled to freedom insofar as we fulfill the duties of respecting and living up to the freedom we already have.”

See all of your friends from home one last time and remind yourself of how much you love them, how big a part of you they are, and how you should do better to keep in touch with them during the school year.

You know Lance Armstrong. From the TV. From his books. From his magazine covers. From his cancer. From his infidelity. From his bracelets that were such a fad for about six weeks there a few years back.

“Sorry if I said anything crazy yesterday. I was really, really drunk,” I text him the next morning. I can’t remember if I called him, and the saved texts don’t reveal much. “Will you still pick me up from the airport?”

I know you must get that a lot, and on good days you probably let it slide. You think, “We’re happy and that’s all that matters,” you think, “Some people are just ignorant, but that’s not our problem.”

There is no legitimate reason that an otherwise prosperous, fun, adventurous night needs to end with you texting your completely indifferent ex with something the lines of “I can’t stop thinking about you.” That is just something that no one needs in their life.

If there’s a Great Band No One Has Ever Heard Of, then I’m sure I’ll hear about it within two months, or six months, on Pitchfork, or Spotify, or freaking VH1 a year later. I don’t care. I don’t mind being one year behind. Duh, that’s what “timeless” means.

Honestly, I have never thought of pole dancing as an activity that required any skill but I was wrong. These girls were truly athletic and knew what they were doing on that thing. It should be an Olympic sport. I’m not even kidding.

What are the actual odds that without opening Twitter first thing, I’ll somehow not find out about the zombie apocalypse until it’s too late? Don’t answer that. This is an actual reoccurring stress dream I have. I don’t want to know.

What am I saying? It’s in my bag. Of course, let me just dig around in here. Well, I don’t feel a twenty. Stop. Let’s do this logically. I’ll just dump everything in my bag out on the table. There’s my lip balm, oh that’s where I put those headphones, now if I could just find—no, it’s not in here either!

I wrote down everything that went into my mouth, everything from a stick of gum to five peanuts. If I wasn’t feeling lightheaded, if I wasn’t passing out, I figured I could always stand to halve the portion.

When “Rolling In The Deep” gained sincere radio play, the focus was on Adele rather than the song. When “Just A Girl” introduced the charts to Gwen Stefani and No Doubt, the band had more personality than the track in question.

Who knows what it means that I feel so alienated and inside myself that the thought of humoring someone else’s presence makes me feel like a cat being forced into a bathtub? Who knows what that says about my relationship with the person I’m dating? Does it mean we’re not right for each other? Or does it mean I have issues?

In fourth grade, we often flirted by making fun of a girl on the playground because we didn’t know any better. But somewhere between the ages of 13 and 20, I’d imagine most guys learned how to flirt for real.

I fabricated a skirmish when I was stationed in Iraq. I feel bad about this one. Speaking of video games, the troop I was covering would play Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare on slow days, inviting myself and a few of the other “cool” reporters into the gaming tent.

I know I love you because I want to listen, I really do. I don’t have anywhere to be that can’t wait for a while and I’m not checking my phone, in fact turned it off and buried it in the cushions the moment you said you needed me. I’m here for you and that other thing can wait.

But as with the aforementioned Tina Feys and Zooey Deschanels, the slapstick “aren’t-I-such-a-geeky-weirdo” act is often only TV-ready if it is performed by someone who is, in all reality, very attractive and appealing to men.

How many friends do you have who are holding out for the “the girl of their dreams” or “the perfect guy,” like Alicia Silverstone in Clueless? The folks who are always single because no one is ever good enough, “at their level” or “get” them, who seem to find something irreparably wrong with everyone they date?

And now you laugh, you laugh at how your animal has drenched me in its fluid. How hilarious. I’ll laugh too: ha ha ha, it’s so adorable how your dog lunged at me, invaded my personal space, and then washed my glorious visage in smelly dumpster juice. Laughing at a violation of my dignity is a great way to nourish our relationship for years to come, you species defector.